One Chance
by John Damen
Summary: A soldier and a civilain's journy to safety through Raccoon City.
1. The Soldier

"One Chance"

By John Damen

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"Where eerie figures caper

to some midnight music

that only they can hear."

~ The Book Of Counted Sorrows

Chapter 1

"The Soldier"

The flame from the old, worn Zippo highlighted his face as he placed the small fire to the tip of the cigarette. His dark brown hair briefly flecked with strands of gold as the orange light came close to his features.

The flickering light cast shadows across face, making him seem older than he really was. He carried his thirty-four years well. So well, in fact, that people often took him for a 20-year-old college student. It was as flattering hearing the compliments from young women on his apparent youth as it was annoying when he wanted to buy a six pack and kept getting asked for an I.D.

Only two months away from an attack of thirty-five-itus, in the flickering flames of the lighter, he looked almost fifty.

With a flick of his wrist, he snapped the lighter closed and slipped it into a small utility pocket on the tactical vest he wore and readjusted the Colt M-4 Carbine enough to keep the sling from digging painfully into his shoulder.

The man, far from being the college student that young women mistook him for, was dressed in the olive drab uniform of the Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasures Service. His black jungle combat boots were caked red with mud, and the darker red of dried blood.

Around his left arm was a gauze bandage, the blood seeping from the wound on his bicep was staining the otherwise white cloth a bright crimson red. He mused about how it was the same color of a rose before casting his sharp green eyes around the scene in front of him. He was standing next to a Dumpster; the smell of it was muted by the decaying bodies nearby. In truth, nearby was not adequate enough to describe the distance between him and the rotting corpses. One was right in front of him, about eight feet away and was slumped against the opposite wall. The other was on the other side of the two dumpsters next to him.

The soldier gazed up and down the ten-foot wide alley, idly wondering if he should shut the Dumpster's lid, but ultimately deciding against it.

He straitened up under the pull of the tactical-vest, being weighed down with both full and empty magazines for the assault rifle that was slung over his shoulder.

The city was once a prosperous community, though small by most standards. In a town of little more than five thousand, it seemed as though everyone knew everyone else. But then, as they say, the shit hit the fan. But in the span of a few days, it did more than just hit the fan. A proverbial manure cart crashed into a running jet engine and shit got blown all over the city.

The killing started about a month ago. First there were reports of tourists and hikers being attacked in the Arklay Forest on the outskirts of town. They seemed to have been attacked by wild animals, then they were thought to have been attacked by cannibals. Whatever was doing the killing, it didn't discriminate; men, women, children, Black, White, Asian; they all were partly eaten. Finally, the Raccoon City Police Department sent their Special Tactics And Rescue Squad, S.T.A.R.S. for short, to investigate. Out of the two teams to be sent; five members in the Alpha team, eight members of the Bravo team, only five individuals made it back. When they tried to tell people what they had seen, they were said to be suffering battle fatigue and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. But others thought they were just plain old nuts. The result was the same, they were recommended to psychiatrists and little to no real thought was given to their stories or reports.

And really, who could blame those who thought of them as crazy? They were telling fantastic tails of zombies, monsters, giant snakes, and over sized spiders, killer plants, mutated sharks, and killer crows. It was the sort of thing you could find in a B-rate horror movie.

The surviving members of the S.T.A.R.S. teams; Chris Redfield, Jill Valentine, Barry Burton, Rebecca Chambers, and the helicopter pilot Brad Vickers, all drifted apart.

Chris, while still being officially employed by the Raccoon City Police Department, left to search for clues and evidence that would expose the company behind the nightmare, Umbrella.

Jill Valentine resigned from the Police Department shortly after her return. She was seen frequenting the local gun store. They said she had purchased an M-4 Carbine and was using the last bit of her pay to buy ammunition.

Barry Burton had taken a paid vacation and left town to see his family.

Brad Vickers was still working with the Police. He was flying over the town, patrolling for the most part, though he was privately keeping an eye out for the horrors he glimpsed back in the forest.

Rebecca Chambers seemed to have all but disappeared. She left with no notice to anyone, just packing whatever she could in a duffel bag and headed out of town in her Jeep.

It seemed that almost as soon as the last of the S.T.A.R.S. unofficially disbanded that the monsters started showing themselves, almost as though they were waiting for the last group of people who could stop them to break apart. Once it was found out to be a virus killing these people, and subsequently reanimating the corpses; a virus developed by Umbrella Corporation that they had dubbed the T-Virus, which was short for Tyrant-Virus; the police tried their best to organize against the monsters that the innocent population had become. White Umbrella, out of their desperation to appear concerned, dispatched the Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasures Service.

So here he was, standing in the middle of the shit typhoon, one of the last surviving members of the U.B.C.S., gazing at the ruins of the once peaceful city through wisps of blue cigarette smoke.

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God, I hate this place. He thought as he took a drag from the cigarette and exhaled the light blue smoke through clenched teeth.

He hooked his thumb around the sling of his assault rifle and leaned against the red brick wall behind him, jerking his right foot sharply in an attempt to shake off the scrap of newspaper that had attached itself to the treads of his boot, only to groan sharply and intake a deep breath when the protruding edge of the charging handle on his rifle dug into his back over his kidney, and went into a sharp coughing fit when he sucked in too much of the nicotine laced smoke.

In his aggravation, he pushed away from the wall, plucked the almost untouched cigarette from his mouth and flipped it onto the hood of a nearby burning police car.

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God, I fucking hate this place! he thought angrily, rubbing his throbbing flank.

He pulled the assault rifle from where it was slung over his shoulder, twisted his hand around the strap so the sling was twisted around his wrist; and held the weapon at a forty-five degree angle, the muzzle aimed at the concrete, the edge of the stock resting by his right shoulder. This stance would allow him to quickly bring the rifle to bear on a target, should one present itself.

Looking around, he made sure he was, for the most part, out of sight. He was waiting for news from the remaining members of his team to crackle over the radio, but so far, there was nothing but static. For one chilling moment, the radio crackled to life, but the sound that came through it wasn't that of his commanding officer. It was one of his teammates, a rookie, on his first mission. He was screaming for back up, terror filling his voice and sending chills down the man's spine. 

The rapid pops of automatic weapons fire from the other team members could be heard behind the rookie's voice, as well as their screams. Screams of fear, screams of mind numbing terror, and shrieks of pain. The roar of the assault weapon closest to the rookie drowned most of them out as he transmitted his call for help.

There was a short shriek from the rookie, the sound of a rifle's roar filled the speakers of the small radio, then the transmission cut out all together. For a full minute the tiny black device was silent, then, with a small beep and a pop, another transmission came through the speaker, but what came out of the little black box the second time was possibly more chilling than the first.

In retrospect, he would have preferred the screams of terror and pain and the rapid pops of weapons fire. But what came over the radio was neither.

It was the sound of ragged breathing and a groan of pain, which was quickly silenced by a wet tearing sound. There was a sharper groan of pain, then the voice died out all together, but the wet sounds of something ripping continued.

Then came the moans.

These weren't moans of pain, nor were they moans of ecstasy. They were the moans of the mindless. They were muffled, sometimes, by a ripping sound, then chewing. This went on for almost two full minutes, then came a moaning sound, louder than the rest. It sounded like whatever, or whoever it was, was in a mindless rage.

There was a soft whoosh, then a series of sharp clacks and scrapes, then the radio fell silent for good. That was almost three hours ago, and no transmissions had been received since then.

The man kicked a pebble by the toe of his boot, sending it scuttling across the pavement, and sighed out of tension and boredom. He was bored, but he was also thankful. Because if he wasn't bored, then he'd be fighting for his life against hordes of the living dead. If he had to choose, he'd take boredom.

A door at the end of the alley banged and shuttered. He turned quickly towards the sound, and when it banged again, he jumped into the Dumpster and pulled the lid closed on top of him. He would rather wait in the rotten smelling foulness of the Dumpster than risk another confrontation with one of the monstrosities that had passed by his place of hiding. No sooner than he had quietly closed the lid to the trash receptacle than he had heard the door to the alley open, then close with a metallic bang. He started breathing through his mouth, partly to keep the sound to a minimum, but mostly to keep his nasal passages from being assaulted by the foul smell that had been quickly building up in the trash container.

After a short time, he heard the sound of footsteps. They were soft, steady, and evenly spaced. Not the brushing, dragging sound that the zombies made. He was about to get out of the putrid receptacle to see if he was right in thinking that the cause of those footfalls was a living human, and not a zombie or some other creature when he heard the moans. They were the moans that he had heard over his radio, the sounds of the zombies that he had fought so hard against in the first few hours of his deployment. When the moans came again, he was certain that they were coming from the dead body that was in front of the garbage bin that had become his temporary haven.

Five gunshots rang throughout the area. The shock-wave that was caused by the slug moving through the air and by the expulsion of gases from the barrel of the weapon caused a feeling on his eardrums not unlike getting poked with the eraser of a pencil. The sound that bounced around the inside of the dumpster deafened him momentarily from the second sets of moans and the second set of reports from the small firearm that was being fired a few feet away from his hiding place.

Two dull thumps sounded just outside of the Dumpster that hid him, then came the sound of quick footfalls as someone ran past his smelly hiding place.

There was a pause, then more moaning and shuffling. About twelve seconds later there came a loud explosion, one that defend him as the sound echoed around the alley and bounced off of the insides of the garbage bin. After a time it was quiet, only the sound of fading footfalls penetrated the foul smelling steel of the Dumpster. He cracked the lid to the garbage receptacle and peeked through the gap.

The dead body he had been standing in front of was now slumped over onto its left side, a fresh pool of blood soaking its already filthy shirt.

The soldier pushed the lid open a little more and wiggled out of the putrid receptacle while being careful to keep his rifle from hitting the metallic walls of the waste container, in case the sound of metal on metal would bring unwanted attention, both from the unholy monsters that now roamed freely in the town, and from humans who were greedy, underhanded, and power hungry. He could not understand why people didn't band together in times of need.

That must be just one of the many things that made humans so damn interesting. Their ability for great beauty, and great destruction being two of the more prominent of the interesting things. If nothing else, he was in the heart of an example of those two things. The city was once a nice town, one of the last towns in the Northern United States that had escaped all evidence of the urban renewal that had claimed to many other towns, such as Oklahoma City.

Raccoon City was a beautiful community, but now horrific monsters ran free in the streets and buildings that were inhabited by dead bodies. Monsters that were created by power hungry humans and corporations.

The man slid to the corner of the building and looked around the bricks in time to see someone run through a door on the far end of the building. Suddenly curious, he ran down the street, not caring if he attracted more monsters with the noise he was making, and stopped in front of the little cubbyhole where the door was situated.

The soldier paused in front of the door for a split second, and in that time, the sound of a crash pierced the metal door. Then came the familiar sounds of groaning and decaying feet shuffling on the concrete. He grasped the doorknob tightly in his fist and tried to violently open the entrance to the alley beyond. The knob was stuck tight, and the soldier thought that this wasn't going to be the last jammed handle that he came across before the night was out. The sound of gunfire came just a few seconds later. Loud bangs that had about one second separating each shot. There could have been as little as nine shots, or as many as twenty, but his body was producing far too much adrenaline for him to keep a clear enough mind to count the number of shots. He tried the doorknob again, but with little more success than he had on the first try.

The gunfire fell silent. 

Letting go of the handle, the man decided all he could do now was stand and wait.

As the seconds turned into minutes, he started to get fidgety. By the third minute since the he was bouncing on the balls of his feet and running his thumb up and down the sling of the rifle. He needed to do something, he just couldn't think of anything.

Just when he was about to stop shifting his weight from foot to foot and sit down, there came a shrill scream from nearby. As soon as he heard it, his reflexes kicked in, and he was sprinting down the street. When he was halfway down the block, three sharp booms erupted from ahead of him. Judging from the sound, they were gunshots fired from a handgun.

Hearing the pistol fire, he picked up his pace, his heavy combat boots slamming into the pavement as he ran. His olive drab camouflage pants getting soaked to the knees as he splashed indiscriminately through puddles of water, and mud puddles as well.

He slowed down when he got to the end of the road, unsure if he was too late to help whoever it was that was doing the shooting when two more gunshots shattered the otherwise quiet night. The man turned and ran down the alley he had just been waiting in, heading in the direction of the gunfire, slamming into, and tumbling over, tin garbage cans and plastic trash sacks. He ducked under a broken fire escape and came to a skidding stop in a small alcove that hid a metal door.

The man carefully pulled the sling of his rifle, pulling it from where it was across his shoulder and aimed the barrel of his weapon at the crack of the closed door and, with his left hand on the doorknob; his right hand on the pistol grip of the rifle, pulling the stock hard against his shoulder while keeping the muzzle steady, quietly pushed the door open.

Once the door swung completely open, he put his left foot forward, his left hand supporting the barrel of the assault rifle by the heat shield, bracing himself against the recoil of the weapon in the event he had to start shooting.

His nerves were like live wires and he was so tense that if he were a watch, he would've exploded long before then. It was really a good thing that his finger slipped off of the trigger when he readjusted his grip.

A woman dressed in a blue tube top and a black mini skirt had just disappeared through a door at the end of the alley. She had reddish brown hair, blue eyes, and looked to be in her early twenty's. She also had a gray sweatshirt tied around her waist.

Had his grip been perfect when he opened the door, he would have shot her, purely from surprise and his own tenseness. He sighed in relief from not killing her, cursing his anxiety as he proceeded towards and up the ten small steps midway down the alley, passing a broken yellow bicycle on his way.

At the top of the steps he saw the two bodies. The first was the body of a young girl. She was sprawled face down in the middle of the alley. There were large wounds on her neck and on her left shoulder blade where she had been partly eaten. There was also a large bloodstain growing on her shirt over the small of her back and on the calves of her legs.

The second corpse was a male and in noticeably worse condition. It was in the process of decay, it's gray skin was ripped and torn, a large flap of flesh was hanging off of it's jaw, exposing teeth that should have been hidden. It was laying a few feet from the girl in a pool of it's own blood. There were five bullet holes in its chest in a wide group.

He checked for a pulse from the girl and noticed that she wasn't even cool yet. The soldier stood up and turned to the window in the wall to his left and peered inside just as the woman passed by and turned to climb up a staircase, on her way to the office of the warehouse.

The man sighed as he looked back at the corpse of the young woman, and he could not help but think of how wrong it was that her life was taken from her in such a brutal fashion.

Despite his profession of killing, he still had a strong since of right and wrong, and this was very wrong indeed. And seeing the young woman, lying on the pavement filled him with guilt.

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If only I was a little quicker, he thought to himself. He couldn't help but feel responsible for this girl's death.

He tilted her head to the side, just enough so he could see the expression of utter agony and pain frozen on her features. The man guessed her age to be just a little older than sixteen.

Resigning himself to the fact that, no matter how fast he had gotten there, it wouldn't have been quick enough, the soldier backed away from the corpse and went back down the steps and out of the metal door. Once he was in the adjoining alley, he walked to the Dumpster he had hid in, climbed onto it and standing on the lid, he climbed onto the catwalk above him. He retrieved the olive drab rucksack he had hid up there and opened the flap. He pulled a large aluminum ammunition can from inside the rucksack and sat it on the metal grating before reaching into his tactical vest and withdrew an empty magazine from one of the pouches.

The soldier opened the ammo can and peered inside to see the last few lose rounds of ammunition for the M-4 Carbine he carried. He sighed, half in frustration, half in disappointment as he scooped the bullets from the bottom of the can, rubbed his fingers together until one of the rounds appeared between his thumb and index finger, and pressed the first bullet into the magazine. As he repeated this process, counting the number of bullets quietly, he started to feel a little more relaxed.

Three…four…five…six…

The feeling of doing something repetitive was soothing to him. He had done this countless times before he came to Raccoon City, before he joined the U.B.C.S., and even before he was in the military. The familiarity of pressing the bullets into the assault rifle's magazine helped to ground him to reality.

Twelve…thirteen…fourteen…fifteen…

Raccoon City couldn't be any worse than the action he saw during his military career, could it? After all, no one here was charging at him with a fully automatic AK-47 assault rifle. No one was screaming foreign obscenities while in the middle of blood lust.

Twenty one…twenty two…twenty three…twenty four…

The truth was, Raccoon City was worse, much worse than any battlefield he had ever been on. The enemies he had encountered before were only doing what they thought was right. They were doing what they did for God and country. Get rid of the American infidels and earn your place at Allah's side. Kill American GI for the honor of your family's name.

Twenty-seven…twenty-eight…twenty-nine…thirty.

The enemies in Raccoon City had no control over what they were doing. They were trying to kill him because of a virus. A virus that killed the victim and reanimated the corpse. The population had been turned into nothing more than zombies hungry for flesh. They died all because a company fucked up while developing new Biological Weapons.

The soldier slipped the now full magazine into a pouch in his tactical vest and, holding the last bullet in his right hand, took hold of his assault rifle's handle and pressed the small button above and forward of the trigger-guard. The magazine dropped out of the weapon and landed in his waiting left hand.

He let the rifle rest against his shoulder as he pressed the last bullet into the box and slapped the magazine back into the rifle.

The door at the end of the alley opened and closed. He had enough time to peer down through the metal grating to see the woman he had seen earlier walk further away from him into the alley and exiting through another door.

The man stood up and hefted the rucksack onto his shoulders and before jumping from the catwalk onto the Dumpster below him, then hopped to the pavement. Out of shear curiosity, he followed her through the door, and into an Y shaped alley beyond.

He crunched over broken glass and took the eight steps in front of him two at a time before coming to a halt on a wooden walkway. Proceeding carefully, he stopped and peered around the corner of the building. A pile of dead and rotting bodies lay about twenty feet away from him. From the way they were sprawled on the wooden walkway, it looked as though they had burst forth from the open doorway in the building he was leaning against. The bodies were blocking the path into an alley that branched off of the one he was currently standing in.

The man sighed; wondering which way the woman had gone. Figuring he always back track later, he proceeded down the alley, passing the pile of corpses, and down two sets of steps before coming to a halt in front of a metal door. He recognized it as the door that was jammed shut when he followed the woman the first time and heard the gunshots that must have been the ones responsible for the pile of corpses behind him.

The soldier turned without opening the door, and went back to the pile of bodies. Entering the doorway that the zombies had spilled out of, he turned right and descended down the stone staircase into a small storeroom. In the far left hand corner of the room, a man in a police uniform was slumped against a row of shelves, his face was disfigured and his intestines were in his lap. Gnats had made their home in and around his exposed entrails. The smell that hit him made his insides lurch up into the base of his throat and threatened to expel his long since digested meal of Tai-Chicken.

The only thing that kept him from turning and racing for fresh air, was his need for the items in the crates lining the shelves. He set his assault rifle aside, letting it lean against the wall on his left, and let the rucksack slide from his shoulders. The man kneeled down and once the cover was open, he reached into one of the crates to his right and pulled out a bottle of water and blew what dust he could off of the label and rubbed his thumb over the plastic to remove the rest of the grime. He looked closely at the adhesive label before he shoved it into the rucksack. When he was reaching for more bottles, the rifle's stock slid out from under it and the weapon clattered onto the concrete floor.

Sucking in a breath of foul smelling air and at least two gnats, the soldier leapt to his feet, knocking the rucksack askew, and ripped his 9millimeter Beretta 92F sidearm from its holster on his right thigh. He arose to a half-crouched position, bringing the pistol up to eye-level in a two-handed grip and aimed it towards the staircase behind him.

It took him almost three minutes before he was reasonably sure it was not a zombie or something worse coming down the steps, and only then did he lower the pistol enough so he was not looking down the sights, and studied the shadows on the wall in front of him. It was an additional five minutes before he convinced himself that the moving shadows on the stone walls was the result of moonlight and clouds headed for New York; and that the sounds in his head were from a combination of the leaky pipes, his ragged breath, imagination, and his own Tinnitus.

Lowering the Beretta, the man let out a sigh of relief and dropped his gaze to the floor. The culprit of the noise lay at his feet, looking innocent of scaring its owner.

The man picked the rifle from the ground and laid it across a row of boxes, making sure that it would not slip and scare him a second time. He holstered the pistol before grabbing the rucksack and quickly shoving three more bottles of water into it. He repeated this process endlessly until he had totally emptied one crate and then started on another.

Only when he had emptied over half of the crate of its bottled water did he stop. It wasn't because he was sure he would not go thirsty, it was because he knew he could no longer stay in the alley by the dumpsters. That area was no longer safe, and he could not wait for the order to regroup at the extraction point. It was going to be quite the hike with no wheeled transport, and he knew he would need to keep plenty of space in his rucksack incase he picked up items he would need along the way.

He closed the flap on the rucksack and secured it before hefting it onto his back and snapping the buckle on the built-in belt to keep it from moving too much as he walked or ran. He bent down and picked up his rifle from the boxes before turning and leaving the small room at a fast trot. He was desperate for fresh air and once he was outside, he sucked in great breaths of it to purge the smell and taste of the rotting body from his nose and mouth.

Not even giving the dead bodies in front of him a second glance, he stepped around them, and headed into the adjoining alley in front of him. He ran until the alley turned sharply to the right and paused there.

Keeping his back against the wall, the man peeked carefully around the corner. Nothing there, just another set of stairs and a rusty door. Feeling he had nothing to lose, he opened the door carefully and stepped through.

The sight that greeted him once he was through the doorway was pink graffiti scrawled on a rusted metal shutter. The debris that was piled up in the alley to his left made it painfully obvious that there was no way he was going to get across it. Not when there was clear passage to his right. The only thing that could be considered an obstruction was the dead body lying in the middle of the path in front of him. He walked towards the end of the alley, keeping a weary eye on the body until he passed it and was about to proceed until he saw a glint of blackened metal.

Knowing that whoever had killed this man had not bothered to check him, he reached down and withdrew a 9millimeter Beretta that was not unlike his own from the waistband of the bodies trousers and stuck it inside his tactical vest, knowing that the vest was tightened around his chest and abdomen so tightly that it would hold the weight of the pistol against his chest with little problems. He stood up and avoided the rest of the dead bodies as though they carried an infectious disease, which of course, they were.

Once he was sure there were no other zombies, the man started to run down the alley, past blocked apartments and closed shops. His boots crunched over scattered newspapers and crushed the already broken bottles that were unlucky enough to get in his way.

Mid-stride, his knees locked up and he came to an abrupt, skidding halt.

It was not a cramp that had stopped him.

It was fear.

He had seen some real horrors during his time in the military, but this was the first time he was frozen to the spot with a fear he had never known before this night.

Hidden in the shadows, hovering over one of three dead bodies, was something he had not seen in his briefing, nor had he seen since he had arrived in the city limits. Concealed in darkness, the thing was no more than a silhouette.

He could roughly see the horns atop its rudimentary head, and two long pinchers above two smaller ones, giving its mouth the look of a praying mantis. Its size was just slightly larger than a Volkswagen Minibus. It was crouched down on two long, surprisingly thin legs that looked far too weak to support its massive weight.

The thing looked at him with two glowing red eyes for a long moment.

The soldier was rooted to the spot, unable to move.

The thing lowered its body and extended two long, thick arms that ended in what could only be described as talons down to one of the bodies under it and lifted it as though it were a child's doll. It brought the body to its mouth, and the thing opened wide to receive its meal.

To the soldier, the thing's entire lower head and jaw seemed to open in half and it swallowed the corpse whole, its pinchers helping to pull the carcass into its throat. The thing reared upright, its face glaring at the overcast sky as the cadaver's legs disappeared down the thing's gullet. Only favoring the soldier with a glance, the thing lowered its body, and repeated the process with the second body.

When the thing had partially swallowed the third body whole, the soldier snapped out of his trance. He brought up his rifle, and to him he was moving in slow motion, he just couldn't get the rifle up fast enough.

The thing (for that's what it was, a thing) had consumed the remains of the third body with a gulping-choking sound, then turned its gaze back to only living human on the street.

The soldier had the stock of the Colt M-4 pressed hard to his shoulder and thumbed the selector switch to full automatic.

The thing heard the almost inaudible click, and knew what the end result would be if it stayed any longer.

The man tightened his finger around the trigger and felt it take up the slack before it stopped moving.

The thing's eyes flashed a bright, angry red in the split second it took for it to crouch down and leapt ten feet into the air. It jumped from a second story windowsill of an apartment building, across the ten foot wide alley, and landed on a third story ledge of the building neighboring the building.

The man followed its journey with the muzzle of his rifle, waiting for a good shot.

When the thing jumped over the rooftops, the soldier had just a brief glimpse of it in all it's horrendous glory before it unraveled two enormous wings from its body.

The soldier was reminded of over grown batwings and hesitated for just a few seconds, letting his finger off of the trigger and watched as the thing seemed to float in midair.

With one powerful flap or its wings, each of which were almost as big as its body, it vanished over the rooftop of the gray apartment building.

The soldier blinked three times, all the while peering down the sights of his rifle and wondering if he really saw that monster. It was some time before he dared to venture into the alley, and he kept the barrel trained on the patch of sky where the creature disappeared.

Not daring to linger any longer than he had to, the man ran to the barricade that funneled him into another alcove in which a wooden door resided. There was a series of gunshots from close by and they faded almost as soon as he entered the hideaway. The door looked like something you would find on a pirate ship, not in a city. The man felt that he didn't have time to think about this and grabbed the iron loop that served as a handle and pushed the door open enough so he could step through. Once on the other side, he let the door swing shut behind him as he ran into yet another alley.

He ran until he came to what appeared to be a small, sunken, courtyard that could be accessed by either a small staircase that was just off to his left as he looked across the grotto. The other way was by a narrow passageway on the other side of the hideaway. There were three carcass' lying on the ground in the courtyard. As he descended the steps, his gaze was not focused on the bodies, but in the chalk marks on the pavement, which he took to be a child's depiction of railroad tracks. The scooter and baseball bat leaning against the east wall, and the discarded toy box, which was next to some trashcans, fueled this theory.

In a happier time, this might have been the neighborhood kid's playground.

The soldier turned and headed into the small passageway and followed it as it turned slightly to the right and proceed up five steps, stopping abruptly when he saw the woman he had been following disappear through the doorway in the left wall.

Five gunshots crashed into the alley from behind the door the woman had entered.

He jumped up and ran to the door, tried to open it, but the knob had jammed. He stepped away from the door and, bracing his back against the wall, lifted his jungle boot to kick the door open. Just before he kicked the door like an angry mule, the gunshots stopped. He didn't know why he lowered his boot, but he did. He slowly put his ear to the door and listened. A man was talking, he sounded frightened. He said that there was something coming to kill them. A woman replied, her words muffled through the thick wooden door. The man said something else, then a door opened and closed with a bang.

The eavesdropping Umbrella soldier waited, his ear pressed against the cool wooden door.

The woman inside let out a soft sigh, then started walking, her boots thumping softly on the floor, coming closer until the soldier jerked away from the door, expecting it to open. It didn't and the footfalls faded until he was confident enough to replace his ear, listening again. The women gasped in surprise, then grunted in pain before a sound came through the door that reminded the soldier of the times he would throw rotten Halloween pumpkins off of a bridge with his dad when he was a kid.

He could hear the heavier thudding sounds of running for a second then another door opened and closed with a bang. After waiting for a few moments and hearing no movement inside, he tried the doorknob again. Expectedly, it was still jammed. Rearing back, he lashed out with his booted foot square at the center of the wooden door. The thing was weaker than he expected and it tore free of its hinges, swinging to the left as the latch remained in the strike plate before falling against the wall.

He entered the room cautiously, keeping his rifle braced against the hollow of his shoulder while peering down the iron sights of the M-4. He didn't move his eyes as he scanned the room, but twisted his upper torso in the direction he wished to look, not taking his gaze from the rifle's sights. He kept close to the wall, raising and lowering the barrel of the weapon as he searched the floors and at cross-level for any possible threats.

Empty brass 9millimeter shells popped and skittered across the floor, disturbed by his jungle boots as he moved cautiously along the wall. The brass shells gave off golden glints as they spun and danced across the tile floor.

Lying on the floor in front of his boot, was a corpse. Not so unusual in this town, but this one had five gunshots in its chest, just like the one outside though these shots were in a slightly tighter group. The soldier thought he should find the woman and tell her that she needed to start taking more head shots. He even toyed with the idea of trying to make it through this town with her, but for some reason he knew it would be pointless to try. He knew they would just end up getting separated, or she would ditch him, thinking he would just slow her down.

Because of these doubts, he decided to forego asking her help, and decided to continue on his own.

Feeling confident that the place was empty of enemies, he took in the fact that he was in a bar and slung his rifle over his shoulder. He realized for the first time how hungry he really was.

And thirsty.

Oh, lord, was he dying for a drink. Preferably one that would get him too numb, or too drunk to care about the city of the living dead that he was trying to survive.

He walked around behind the bar and examined the shelves under the counter. When he got to the bend in the L shaped bar, he saw another corpse; this one was missing its head. He swallowed the vomit that had suddenly found it's way into his mouth at the same time the smell found it's way into his nostrils and continued his search for numbing liquid. The only bottle that wasn't broken was covered in dust.

The soldier reached under the counter, pulled the bottle from it's hiding place, and blew the dust off of the label. He coughed when some of the dust followed the back draft and flew up his nose and blew into his mouth. Blinking the dust particles from his eyes, he rubbed his thumb across the label so he could see the words.

__

Everclear, perfect, he thought as he unscrewed the cap and swallowed a mouthful of the fiery alcohol. He turned to examine the counter behind him, but found it to be almost bare. The thin layer of dust was almost completely undisturbed, except for a rectangle about the size of a box of pistol ammunition.

He took another drink of the pure grain alcohol and headed around the bar and out of the door on the far side of the room. Once outside, he found himself back on the street where he had seen the body-eating monstrosity.

Feeling considerably more confidant than he had before the alcohol had taken effect, the man strolled down the lane, looking idly into the boutique through the barred window. Oddly enough, this seemed to be the only shop left untouched. He proceeded on, and soon came to what looked like a donut shop, but in his increasingly drunken state, could easily have been a fish market.

Deciding that any food would be better than the processed M.R.E.'s he had brought along, he went to the door, and found it to be barred closed with a green painted steal gauge mesh.

__

This poses no problem for Everclear Man, he thought to himself as he took another swig from the bottle and pulled his Beretta from its holster on his hip. He aimed the pistol with his right hand, not daring to put the all important alcohol on the pavement for even a second.

The first shot he fired missed the heavy padlock and sailed through the glass door behind the locked gate. He fired another round, determined to get into this establishment, and the bullet tore through the chain-links that was holding the barrier in place.

The man holstered the sidearm, and pulled the now ruined chain off of the gate and let it clatter to the ground before pulling the grid open and pushed his way into the shop through the unlocked door.

The room he entered was dark, most of the bulbs having been broken or burnt out of their own accord. The man reached into the thigh pocket of his camouflage pants and withdrew a long tube.

__

Let there be light, he thought to himself and slapped the tube hard against the wall. A bright green light shone through the plastic tube, and grew brighter when he shook it. The man threw the chemical light into the far right corner, and withdrew another tube from his pants and slapped that one against the wall as well. This time, he threw it into the corner closest to his left and waited for his eyes to adjust to the low light level.

It was a butchery. The man walked behind the counter and checked the products, figuring he could build a fire to cook the meat later. He groaned softly as he bent down to examine the shaved ham on the lower shelf.

He didn't see the person behind him.

He didn't hear her swift and silent footsteps.

But he did feel the cast-iron skillet when it crashed into the back of his head, sending him sprawling face forward onto the dusty, wooden floor.

He managed to control his fall only to the point to where he landed on his back, blinking up at the ceiling and a blurred face appeared, framed by curly auburn hair and thick rimmed glasses.

The soldier had time for one last coherent thought before he passed out.

_God, I fucking hate this place._


	2. The Survivors

Chapter 2  
"The Survivors"

The only word to describe sleep at that time was bliss. Sleep was bliss. He knew he was going to have a hangover that would knock over a horse when he woke up, but right now, he was in the throws of delightful slumber. The average male wouldn't have a big problem with the amount of Everclear he had ingested, but because of his currently low body weight, and the fact that his drinking binges were few and far between, it wouldn't take much to put him down.

No dreams came to the soldier, he only looked into the blackness of his eyelids for what seemed to be just a few seconds before the man noticed the throbbing in his head. It was not strong yet, barely enough for him to notice as the images of a time long past swam into focus before his tired eyes.

Sleep good, He thought, No wake up yet.

The throbbing grew in his head. He remembered the nights before Thanksgiving when his mother would be preparing the food for the next morning. He remembered the next morning when he would wake up to the sounds of banging pots and bowls, the smell of the turkey being put in the oven early in the morning because it took so long to cook.

The throbbing was to strong to ignore now, so he just tried to live with it as he dreamt of helping his mother with the chores of that long ago day. He loved helping his mother spread her special cranberry-honey glaze over the turkey before putting it in the oven.

The pain in his head had grown from a throb, to a dull headache. He swore he could almost smell the cooking turkey and the canned cranberries. Those wonderfully sweet berries that had been mashed into a thick jelly until they stayed in the shape of the can.

Now the ache was enough to make him squint in his sleep. That was how you could tell how good the berries were. If they didn't hold their shape, then you should throw them out. What were those voices? He didn't recognize any of them. And the wonderful smell of turkey was fading from his nose, slowly being replaced with something far more familiar and a lot less pleasant.

Well fuck me, he thought, I guess I'm going to have to wake up. Fuck.

The man cracked his eyelids open slightly, forever dashing the images and smells of his long since passed childhood. Faces and objects swam in and out of focus and he tried desperately to regain consciousness. 

Now he could place the smell that filled his nose. It was the smell of his M.R.E.s heating up.

"Hey…" the young man tried to form the words but found the feat for now was beyond him.

"Hey," he said with more conviction this time, and it caught the attention of the man next to him.

The next thing he felt was a pair of strong fingers pulling his eyelids open followed by a bright light. 

"What the fuck?!" he shouted and jerked away from the fingers and that accursed beam.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" the stranger asked, holding his fingers in front of the man's face.

"Four," the man stated.

"Two, actually. But after a skillet to the noggin and a bottle of Everclear, that's only to be expected."  
The man only groaned, rubbing his throbbing head and struggled into a sitting position on the bed, leaning against the wall behind him.

"Can you tell me your name?"

The soldier groaned and glowered at the man before him, "Hardin, Staff Sergeant, Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasures Service."

"Okay, Staff Sergeant Hardin, are you hungry?"

"A little."

"Can you walk, or would you rather try and get some more sleep?"

Sgt. Hardin got shakily to his feet, using the stranger's shoulder for support when a wave of dizziness hit him.

"Come into the front room. We'll get you fixed up as best we can," the man told him.

Hardin just nodded his head and followed the man as he walked into the hall.

"Do you have a name?" Hardin asked the man as they walked slowly down the hall.

"Jackson, Doctor, Umbrella Biological Research, Arclay Laboratory. Retired."

"You yanking my crank?" Hardin asked in confusion.

"Why would I?" Jackson asked back.

"You're really a scientist out of the Arclay labs?"

"Formerly."

"What happened, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Matter of fact, I do mind. Please don't ask me that, I'd rather leave that subject alone."

Hardin looked away from his feet to see that they had entered the front room. It was fairly large by apartment standards, but it was now crowded with people, mostly women. Indeed, Jackson seemed to be the only male in the room aside from the Sergeant.

Jackson introduced the others in the room; "That there is Scarlet Faith," he pointed to a young woman who's long blond hair fell gracefully down to the small of her back and seemed to enhance her womanly figure. Her eyes were only a shade lighter than Kyle's own emerald green pools.

The doctor then moved to the next girl; "Shakahnna Warren, Shak for short," he pointed to a short young woman with flaming red hair and tight black pants.

He moved on to the next; "Sarah Delarke," Despite wearing regular jeans and a T-shirt, the feminine curves below the fabric were still obvious, even to those who had no intention of looking. Her eyes were deep hazel and when they focused and combined with the ivory teeth and pink lips, the effect was positively engaging. From there his eyes trailed upwards to Sarah's hair which seemed to have the texture of silk, it was the color of chocolate and sat just below her shoulders.

"Doctor Violet Snowe," Jackson leveled his finger on a tall nerdy looking girl with large plastic glasses that rested on a nose that had obviously been broken many times before. Her attire seemed to be limited to an ash gray sweat-suit. She had curly auburn hair and was sitting on the couch, looking sullen.

Most normal name so far, Hardin thought to himself while holding his throbbing head.

"And last but not least," Jackson said, dramatically, "Natalie Black." The last female who graced his vision, seemed to be some what nervous, her eyes flirting to meet his and then darting away with even more speed. A slight glow of red highlighting her high cheekbones which were testament to her slender physique. The point was further hit home by the girls legs which were covered only by a pair of short brown shorts, which ended midway down her thigh, and allowed him to see their shape. The salmon colored shirt was quite baggy and the younger female seemed to be hiding underneath it, her crop of short golden hair ducked down with an air of apprehension.

"Well, have a seat," Jackson told him, then sat down on the old couch before a line from an old TV Show popped into his head, "Its cruddy, but its home."

Hardin caught the brief flash of annoyance that Violet shot at Jackson when he sat down next to her. He decided it would be best if he kept his distance until he knew more about what was going on between those two, and so, he sat down next to Scarlet Faith.

She gave him a polite smile, but little more than that. It was then that he smelled the familiar smell of the heating element in the M.R.E.s that he carried. It didn't take long for him to see them sitting on the coffee table in front of him, steam rising from the box tops as they heated up.

"You stole my food?" Hardin asked the other occupants in the room, although at this moment in time it was not the most important thing so the U.B.C.S. officer was almost willing to let it slide. Especially if someone could provide him some kind of painkillers.

"We were hungry, we haven't eaten since this started," Jackson told him guiltily.  
Hardin put his hands to his temples and rubbed them firmly, trying to make the throbbing go away; "Whatever."

Jackson got up and went into the kitchen. While he was gone, Violet arose and went over to where Hardin was sitting, narrowing her eyes which were neither fully green nor blue.

"Can I help you with something?" the Sergeant asked, slightly uncomfortable with her scrutiny.

"Just shut up for a second, Sergeant," she told him curtly, and ran her fingers through the hair on the back of his head.

The soldier was looking even more uncomfortable by the second.

"Sergeant Hardin…do you have a first name, or is it 'Sergeant'?"

"Kyle. Kyle Salem Hardin, if you must know," he said.

"Truth be told, I wouldn't be surprised if your name was John Wesley Hardin," Jackson told him, upon returning to the front room, "But that would have been a tad cliché," he grinned and threw an icepack into the soldier's lap.

"Why?" Hardin asked the man.

Jackson just looked at him as though he spied something disgusting; "You don't know who John Wesley Hardin was?"

The Sergeant just shook his head.

"Johnny Hardin?" Jackson questioned, "Wild West? The 40 something killer?"

Again, the young man shook his head, looking clueless.

"Jesus Christ, learn your history!" The doctor said, exasperation clear in his voice and threw his arms in the air before turning his back on Sergeant Hardin.

"Do you have a first name, Dr. Jackson?" Kyle questioned, applying the icepack to the back of his head even as Violet pulled his eyelids roughly open and shined a penlight into each of his eyes.

"By the wisdom of my mother and father," he started dramatically, almost comically, and rounded on the soldier, "I was graced with the name of Brian."

"Well, Kyle Hardin," Violet said, after having examined the Sergeant's head, "You don't seem to be hurt. How often do you get hit with a pan?"

"It was a skillet, Violet," Brian corrected with a smile that gave the impression of slight smugness, "A cast-iron skillet. I remember seeing it when I came down to help."

"You, sir, are a cretin," Violet muttered under her breath, getting up and going back to the couch.

The reason for the smug smile was soon revealed in Brian's next rhetorical question, "Can I help it if your screams of slight panic are shrill enough to break glass?"

Violet wheeled around and almost caught Brain across the face with a slap, had he not been prepared for it. He jerked his head away at the last moment, and Violet's fingers were only able to graze the tip of the man's nose.

Brian turned his head slightly and shot Kyle a wink which told the soldier that, even though the good Doctor could pass for being in his early 30's; but must have been in his 50's, 40's at least, he had never quite fully matured from his late teens.

Hardin watched as Violet walked back to the couch, almost tripping on the coffee table, and sat down in a huff, dust blowing out from the cushion as it compressed under her weight.

"You have power and running water?" Hardin asked, seemingly out of the blue.

"Yeah, this is one of the few apartments that still has it. That's how we got water for the ice, and for the heating element in your M.R.E.s. Why?" Brian asked.

"I'd like to take a shower, if that's alright with you," Kyle removed the icepack and saw crimson red on the rubber of the pack. Violet might look rather frail, but she could swing a pan hard enough to draw blood.

"That's fine with us," Brian told him as he lead the soldier to the bathroom, "Just remember, if you get woozy, sit down, stay awake, and call for one of us. We'll hear you if we're not too busy bickering," he said this last bit in jest.

"Thank you," Kyle said quietly, accepting the offered towel and went into the bathroom.

* * *

  
_Okay. This chapter was long in the making and even though I'm not totally happy with it, it is better now than before. Quite a lot of changes have been made, some things taken out, others added in. I still think more can be done, but I don't know what that'd be. So, here it is._

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_I wish to give a big "Thank you" to_ _Shakahnna. Whom has been kind enough to beta this chapter, and guide me through some of the tougher aspects. This chapter would not be as good as it is without her, so Thank you._

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_And another Thank You to Hello Captain, whos own stories have inspired me to continue with my own. Thank you to, Captain. You're a wonderful author. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Margaret Thatcher._

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_Lastly, to enRAGEd. Your ideas and badgerings have had me in stitches, and given me some really good ideas for Resident Evil: Royal Rumble. For that, another Thank You._

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_'Till Next Time,_

_John Damen_


	3. The People And The Monsters

Chapter 3

The People and The Monsters

The soldier stood with his eyes closed, his face relaxed and tilted up into the pouring water. The warmth of the water felt good against his skin, but it felt better to be able to wash the blood, mud, and stink from his body. The warm liquid went a long way to sooth his tense muscles and ease his aching joints. The steam cleared his head of the last of his hangover and somehow managed to bring to the surface memories that he wished he could forget.

_Twenty eight hours. Lord, had it only been twenty eight hours since this whole thing started?_

He looked to his left, and saw his long time friend Robert 'Bobby' Farrel flash him a bloody grin. The crimson liquid had outlined his teeth and was pouring from his lips in an uncontrolled stream. They had only been there three hours and already his friend was wounded and dying and using him as a crutch. The soldier had been bitten and scratched at over forty-three times. There were chunks of meat torn from his calves and arms, his shoulders were torn, and one of the more nasty monsters had gored him through his stomach.

_One more time, Kyle, _Bobby had said, _Might as well go out in a blaze of glory. Lord knows I ain't going to make it out of this town._

_What are you talking about, Bob? _He asked, firing into the oncoming hoard of zombies with his assault rifle, _You have to get through this so you can run your wife and kids up the wall._

_Not this time,_ Bobby told him and shot a zombie twice in the stomach with his Beretta, _I can't spread this to them._

_You don't have to. We'll get you fixed up, no problem._

_Buddy, you just don't get it, do you? I'm dying. I can feel it. God damn, my blood is on fire._

_Just hang on! If we can hang on until tomorrow, we can get to the evac chopper and get you the anti-virus._

_God damn it, Kyle! I'm not going to make it through the night!_

_Bobby..._

_Fuck, man. I'm going to go out. The least you can fucking do is let me go out on my own terms. I swear to hell I'm not going to end up like these fucking zombies._

Before Kyle could say anymore, Bobby had pulled the pins on two fragmentation grenades and ran head long into the crowd of the undead, _Tell Shoran I love her..._

The memory of the explosion from the two grenades jarred him from his daydream. He opened his eyes and looked blankly into the oncoming rush of water for a few moments before he shut off the faucet and leaned his head against the shower, too caught up in his memories to notice the pleasant contrast of the cool tile against his hot skin. The memory of losing his friend was not the worst thing he recalled under the influence of the steamy shower, but thankfully, he wasn't allowed to dwell on his thoughts any longer.

As he was exiting the shower, Natalie Black chose that moment to enter the bathroom carrying several garments in her slender arms, clutching them tighter as she stopped short in her tracks, a small gasp escaping from her mouth and a look of stunned surprise gracing her feminine features.

Kyle stood with one foot in the tub and one on the towel that had been put down to keep everyone from slipping on a wet floor. He made no move to cover himself, seven years of taking public showers in the Army had dulled his sense of shame.

_Hello, I am Kyle Hardin and I have a _**huge**_ cock,_ he thought with a smirk. He had been the cause of most of the feelings of inadequacy among other soldiers in the wash room. That way of thinking and his already lacking shame in the first place caused Natalie Black to get more of an eye full than she had expected.

The young girl's gaze, however, was first called to his chest, where a decidedly large scar ran from his left shoulder and ended under his bottom right rib. Another scar ran between two of his right ribs, where a blade had been imbedded three inches into his chest. There were three stab wounds in his stomach, healed and scarred over many years ago. His left forearm had a ragged scar that was so wide, Natalie was sure his whole forearm must have been severed at one time, and there was a collection of gunshot wounds surrounding the injury on his arm.

"See anything you like?" Sergeant Hardin asked. It was his experience that the easiest way to remove unwanted attention from yourself was to act smug. It worked, Natalie dropped her gaze to his feet, noticing another set of gunshot wounds on his muscular calf, and tried to explain herself while turning an interesting shade of red.

"I...um...I thought you might want...uh...your cloths, so you wouldn't have to run around looking for them...sorry I forgot to knock," she dropped the cloths into the sink and turned for the door, to eyebrow twitching with embarrassment, her eyes locked on the floor in front of her as she crossed the distance to the door with steps that bespoke shyness.

Kyle felt a twinge of guilt at his conduct around someone who clearly had only good intentions towards him, her face was scarlet and the Sergeant wished to change that; "Thank you for bringing my cloths. I appreciate it."

Her face brightened ever so slightly; "Don't mention it."

Kyle walked through the hall five minutes later, pulling his olive drab T-shirt over his head with one hand while pushing the towel into his ear with the other hand. His olive drab camouflage pants had been discarded in favor of a clean pair with the woodland pattern.

He entered the living room, walking slowly and confidently. His nausea had passed and he had now regained the slight swagger he had walked with since his early teens, though his head still throbbed with the pain of a possible concussion. He hooked his left thumb into a belt loop on the waist of his pants without thinking about it as he stopped in the doorway to the living room and looked around for signs of alcohol.

_Target acquired_, he thought to himself when he saw the liquor cabinet against the far wall. He crossed the living room in long strides, sidestepping the coffee table and Violet's extended foot, and opened the cupboard before pulling out a bottle of dark amber liquid, unmindful of the other occupants in the room who were currently eating their meals.

"Hey! You can't just take that!" Brian protested, only to have Kyle shoot a nasty look at him.

"You stole my M.R.E.s, I'm gonna steal your..." he glanced at the label on the bottle, "Jack Daniel's. Consider it payment."

A look of guilt flashed across Brian's face and he made no further comment.

Kyle twisted off the cap and took one long swallow that drained half the bottle. He lowered the bottle slightly, belched, and took another long swallow.

"You, sir, are a Neanderthal," Violet told him, "Didn't your mother even teach you basic manners?"

"Hey, you were the one who messed up a perfectly good hangover," He told her, then went on a search for his boots, socks, and woodland camouflage field shirt.

"You were disheveled and looked like a tramp," she informed him, despite the obvious flush of red anger which spread across her cheeks, unhappy with being reminded of her mistake.

Having found the desired articles of clothing, he sat down in an empty chair and began putting them on. Once fully clothed, he shrugged into his tactical vest and snapped the fastening clips together. Kyle's tactical vest differed from the kind the rest of his team wore. Like the standard vest, Sergeant Hardin's vest had four pouches across the chest, which were designed to accept two thirty round M-16 magazines each, and it also had two smaller pouches just above his waist. However, his vest differed in the fact that it had a low back. This would offer greater ventilation during longer periods of use and would prevent overheating. However, greater ventilation and added flexibility came at a cost of less protection. The ballistic nylon of his vest would only protect the small of his back, leaving him at greater venerability to shrapnel and, in this case, close quarters combat. The few seconds of protection that a full cover back would provide against the zombies could be the difference between life and death. However, Kyle Hardin was without those few seconds.

"Vi," Brian said, turning to Violet Snowe with a mischievous grin, "Zombies shuffle and moan, they don't stagger and drink Everclear."

"Cretin," said Violet.

Once he had his vest on, Kyle secured the tactical thigh holster that was attached to the vest's pistol belt to his right leg. He then secured the pistol magazine thigh rig to his left thigh. This rig held three fifteen round magazines for his Beretta in three separate pouches. The pistol holster itself had an extra pouch on it to accept one more fifteen round pistol magazine. People had often accused the sergeant of being over-prepared, but Kyle would just quote them a line from the movie_ Tremors_; "When you need it and don't have it, you sing a different tune."

The soldier lobbed the empty bottle out of the window and went to the liquor cabinet to acquire more. As he was demonstrating the proper way to chug a flask of Kentucky Deluxe, he felt a tentative tap on his shoulder. Turning around, he saw Natalie Black looking towards anything but his eyes. Her gaze was fixed on the floor to her right and she was currently abusing the fingers on her left hand by wringing them as though they were a wet towel, and she was shifting her weight from foot to foot as though she were too full of energy to remain still for longer than the briefest of moments.

"You...um...you shouldn't really do that," she said quietly, pointing at the liquor in his hand, "Its bad for you..."

"Honey, my liver's already sued me for damages," Kyle said, "I really don't think it matters."

Sounds of moaning drifted into the apartment through the open windows. Kyle reached the window before Brian and looked down onto the street in front of the building. Outside, a group of about twenty zombies had collected and were now attempting to shove their way through the barricaded apartment entrance.

"Great," Brian muttered then ran towards the hall closet. Kyle watched him go, then turned back to the scene outside. The zombies were leaning their weight against the makeshift barricade in an all out effort to get to the small group of survivors inside.

Dr. Jackson returned from the hall closet, Kyle's M4A1 Carbine in one hand and his own Colt M-16A1 that had been fitted with the M-203 40millimeter grenade launcher in the other hand. He handed the M4 to Kyle, then leaned out of the window, taking aim at a zombie's head.

Brian was the first to open fire, dropping three zombies with his first magazine. Kyle fired a burst into a zombie's chest and caused it to stumble back into the walking dead behind it.

When the first gunshot went off, Violet had shrieked and curled into the fetal position under the coffee table, squeezing her eyes shut and clamping her hands over her ears. Scarlet and Sarah dove towards the vacant couch, where Sarah sat on the back rest, her feet on the cushions and her fingers in her ears. Scarlet was content to pull her legs against her chest and she rocked herself back and fourth slightly.

Shak, however, was not content to do either. She ran over to the two men and pulled Kyle's Beretta from the holster on his thigh, aimed at a zombie and started firing.

The gunfire quickly deafened those in the small room, but as with all veteran shooters, Kyle Hardin could only hear the metallic _clink_ of the bolt in his assault rifle. He had his rifle set to semi-automatic and even though he was only firing one shot a time, they were crumpling just the same because every shot he fired was a head shot.

Doctor Jackson was a medical doctor and he was shooting like one. His rifle was set to full automatic and he was all but spraying lead into the crowd below with no real regard for accuracy.

Hot brass shell casings from Brian's M-16 flew from the ejection port and scorched Kyle's left arm, whom forced himself to ignore the searing heat. The high velocity bullets cut down the zombies below as surely as the Grim Reaper's scythe. It took less than two minutes for the horde of zombies be dealt with. They lay on the ground, some twitching, but otherwise totally lifeless. Blood was already pooling under the bodies.

"It isn't safe here any more," Kyle said, turning to Doctor Jackson, "They know you're here."

"You're powers of observation astound me, Sergeant," Brian said sarcastically.

Kyle did not dignify that with a comment. The soldier turned to Shakahnna, whom was grinning and holding up the empty pistol; "I got six zombies."

Sergeant Hardin held out his hand, a frown creasing his brow. The young girl gave him a pout before slapping the weapon into the man's palm and went towards the soldier's rucksack.

Brian turned to the young man beside him, lowering his rifle; "You going to try and get your ass out of dodge?"

"Yeah," Kyle muttered, changing magazines and thumbing the slide release on the weapon, chambering a round into the pistol before slipping it back into the holster; "Are you going to stay here?"

"Not any more, I'm not," Brian dropped his voice, "I don't think the girls are either. Not after this."

Kyle almost gaped at Brian. Even though the man was a doctor, the soldier seriously expected him to drop his knuckles to the ground and grunt from that comment.

_The doctor's a slight chauvinist_, Kyle thought to himself.

Instead of voicing his thoughts, Kyle only asked; "Do you have a way out?"

"Yeah," Brian said, "Do you want to come with us?"

"No, I need to meet up with my team," he frowned, "What's left of them, anyway."

"You sure you want to do that? It's going to be dangerous."

Kyle did not say anything, he merely turned from the window and headed for the liquor cabinet. The soldier opened it and withdrew various bottles of alcohol.

"Your pack is by the couch," Brian told him before Kyle asked.

The soldier crossed over to the couch and tossed the bottles into his rucksack, dimly aware of them clinking dangerously together before going back to the liquor cabinet for more. When he returned to his pack and tossed the bottles in, he noticed there wasn't as much clinking as there should have been.

Knowing what had happened, the man held his hand out to Shakahnna much in the same manner as when he wanted his weapon back.

The redhead merely blinked innocently at him.

"Give," Kyle said firmly, letting her know he was in no mood to play.

"You be's being no fun," the girl said cutely while giving him a playful pout and handed him the two bottles she had stolen from his backpack.

The man tossed the two bottles in the rucksack, closed the flap and tightened the fastenings. Once he had secured his pack, he hoisted it onto his shoulders and started for the door, holding his rifle more securely as he went.

"Sergeant, it's dangerous out there. You may get more use out of this than I will."

Kyle turned and saw the doctor holding out a pistol to him, "What's that?"

"It's been with me for a couple years now. It saved my life not too long ago."

After pausing for a moment, he took the accepted gift. He hefted the heavy 1911A1 in his hand, raising it enough to read the legend Springfield Armory on the slide, beside the company's logo.

"Are you sure, Brian?"

The doctor nodded, "If you won't stick with the idea that there is safety in numbers, then I at least want you to have as much protection as you can get."

Kyle pulled the slide back slightly enough to reveal the glint of brass in the chamber of the pistol.

When Brian spoke, it was in the tone of a man who had dedicated his life to healing others and preserving life; "Be safe, Sergeant."

"I guess you're gonna want something in return?" Kyle muttered; switching the 1911A1 to his left hand and reaching into his tactical vest with his other and pulled out the Beretta he had taken off the dead body on the street, "Here. If you can't hit your target with the fifteen shots in this gun, you deserve to get eaten."

Brian let out a mirthless chuckle and took the pistol before presenting the Sergeant with two extra magazines for his newly acquired handgun.

Kyle left the apartment, shoving the magazines and pistol into a pocket and closing the door behind him.

It wasn't until he'd left that Natalie approached Doctor Jackson and nervously said; "I'm going with him."

"Are you sure?" Brian asked, surprise evident on his face, "You hardly know him."

"Brian..." the young girl paused and chewed on her lower lip for a moment before saying; "In a situation like this, who would you rather be with? Scientists and civilians or a solder?"

Brian blinked in surprise before giving her a small smile, "I see your point."

"Than you'll see why I want to go with him."

"But...you're sure about this? I mean..." Brian leaned down to whisper in her ear, as though he were conspiring against the government, "He is little more than a thug."

"I know, Brian. He does scare me, but I really think he is my best chance to stay alive."

"Okay. I wish you'd come with us, but if you insist on going with him, then all I can say is good luck, Nat."

Natalie smiled and hugged him tightly before bolting out of the door, leaving Brian Jackson to turn to the last three women in the room and asked; "Ready to go?"

Outside, Natalie caught up to Kyle just as he exited the apartment building, wiggling around a large dresser that had been put up as a barricade; "Wait!"

"What?" Kyle asked grumpily.

"I want to come with you," Natalie said, panting slightly from her run down the stairs.

"Oh no you're not. You can turn your ass right around and go back upstairs."

"No."

"Go."

"No!"

"GET BACK UP THERE!"

"NO!"

Kyle let the rucksack fall from his shoulders, grabbed the young woman by her upper arm, and started dragging her roughly back to the apartment.

Natalie fought violently, finally pulling her arm free of the soldier's grasp; "I'm going with you, whether you like it or not."

The girl regretted her words as soon as they were out of her mouth. The look of mixed anger and hatred on Kyle's face when he turned on her made her wish she would have just kept her mouth shut and let him take her back to the apartment. Feeling committed to her demand, though, she put a look of defiance on her face and attempted to stare down a man who was a hardened killer. They stood quietly in the apartment lobby. Natalie trying to stare Kyle down, Kyle trying to decide just how much he'd enjoy hearing her neck snap in his hands.

Rather than trying friendly persuasion, he quickly grabbed the young woman around her waist and lifted her off her feet as easily as though she weighed almost nothing and tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The girl squealed in shock and protest as Kyle started back up the stairs. She wiggled, kicked, thrashed, pounded his back, and screamed at the top of her lungs. Once at the top of the landing, the soldier walked to the entrance of the survivor's hideout and knocked on the door.

Brian opened up, a look of puzzlement on his face as he saw the soldier standing there as calm as a delivery man making his rounds while Natalie kicked her legs and continued screaming.

"This followed me downstairs," Kyle said, drawing out the word _this,_ "I thought you might want it back."

Brian looked at Natalie's wiggling fanny, then at the soldier's dead calm face; "Actually, she wanted to go with you. She said she'd feel safer with a soldier than with us."

"I don't want her," Kyle said simply, as though he were commenting on the weather.

"PUT ME DOWN YOU BIG APE!" Natalie bellowed.

"Kyle, please let her go with you?"

"Why?"

"Because, frankly, I would feel better if she were with someone who knew how to handle a gun."

"What's in it for me?"

Brian blinked, "What do you mean?"

"PUT ME DOWN NOW, YOU CAVEMAN!"

"Having her along is going to slow me down and I don't like to risk my life unless I can get something out of it."

Brian chewed on the inside of his cheek for a second before reaching into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash; "Would five hundred, fifty dollars make having her worth your while?"

Kyle's reaction was instantaneous. He snatched the currency from the doctor so quickly that his hand was a blur; "Yep. That'll do."

As the soldier started back down stairs, Brian waved to the young girl, whom was still slung over the soldier's shoulder, though her arms were now crossed and she seemed have calmed down from her furry and was now in a simmering rage.

"Bye, Nat. Take care."

"Bye, Brian. See you later," said the young girl as she was carried out of sight.

Once back in the lobby, Kyle sat Natalie back on her feet and stuffed the money into his pocket. He looked critically at the girl as though trying to judge just how long she would survive on her own.

"Take me with you," Natalie said in a tiny voice, withering under the big man's gaze; "I can carry my own weight."

Keeping his expression the same, Kyle now found the young woman before him amusing. Natalie looked like she could barely carry a purse, let alone her own weight. The soldier turned and exited the building, picking up his pack and heading into the street, followed quietly by the young woman.

Finally, Kyle turned on her again; "If you come with me, I don't want to hear any complaining. If you fall behind, that's your tough shit. And if I hear you say; "I chipped a nail" I'll shoot you in the face. We clear?"

Natalie swallowed nervously, but nodded regardless. Her fear of facing the dangers of the city alone or even with the limited protection Brian Jackson could offer outweighed her fear of the man in front of her.

"Good, then you can carry the pack," Kyle said, shoving the rucksack unceremoniously into her arms.

The girl grunted as she almost toppled onto her ass and opened her mouth to speak; "But-"

"No complaining," Kyle interrupted her, and heading down the alley, unmindful of her attempts to catch up while tugging the rucksack onto her shoulders. The soldier let a smirk slip onto his face.

_This is going to be interesting._


End file.
